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Literature Text
Constrain me like a thought
passing hushed through the
forest of your mind.
With a look, bind me,
and fail to beg my counsel
regarding wishful thinking,
flexible though, and
vicious imagination.
No. Nurture. Soften your skull
to the weary strain of perfection.
Save me. Be my transparent protection.
I'm afflicted (with consciousness),
just as I never predicted.
But you did.
passing hushed through the
forest of your mind.
With a look, bind me,
and fail to beg my counsel
regarding wishful thinking,
flexible though, and
vicious imagination.
No. Nurture. Soften your skull
to the weary strain of perfection.
Save me. Be my transparent protection.
I'm afflicted (with consciousness),
just as I never predicted.
But you did.
Literature
Who knew
The man you visited in a dream,
The one you re-traced a half-remembered
Path for, in the off-chance of
Surprising one another again -
Polychromatic flannel and subtle sighing
Through the teeth, gently
Warm eyes softly exotic
Slavic vodka on a late summer night -
Swept by today, wearing blinders of
Deep conversation, still
Smiling with an accent
His arm around a waist
I want to sit in my room, arms wrapped around
Knees against chest in the solace of the sun,
I want to watch the endless journeys of
Sidewalk strangers from the fire escape
But it's ten to four and
There's no time to cry anymore;
Only time to join the chattering
Choir
Literature
Antes
We are We, the Hunters of greatest knowledge and spell-blood. We use spell-words to hunt and to Change our bodies to rocks or trees. It has long been forbidden to Change to other Hunters or Hunted, or to kill others of We; yet it happened, and without it We would not be living.
This is that tale.
This is a tale from before the Fire, before the Dark, when the world was still green and the sky was still blue.
We had a Pack in the north, running free under the moon. The hunt was good. The Pack was strong and the prey was weak. The prey was a Hunter, a small running-Hunter; and so he turned, hissing spell-words, but he was claw- and tooth-stro
Literature
illuminate my heart
September falls outside his window and the two-story house feels June. Time tilts here, the days canted to the left like the apple tree their grandchildren planted sometime last winter. It hasn't grown much since then, a few leaves on dry branches but no blooming flowers when spring arrived.
Today his fifty years seem like thirty. Sitting up in bed is easier. He doesn't feel as weak as before. The Pacific breeze touches his hair, chills his pale face and he thinks, Maybe Anna and I could drive down to the beachfront today.
He rolls to his side. She's burrowed under the covers, a blue blanketed lump, white hair poking out over dark blue pill
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Metacognition is simply defined as thinking about thinking.
A very old scrap, reworked.
A very old scrap, reworked.
© 2011 - 2024 phoenixmemory
Comments2
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wow.... i really like the wordage... lots of imagages in there.